


like a coin that won't get tossed

by sybilius



Category: Da uomo a uomo | Death Rides a Horse (1967)
Genre: Bill is a trauma baby, Can be read as canon with mcicioni's works, Discussions of Love, Discussions of hatred, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ficelet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ryan is way too well adjusted, Shaving, birthday fic, but they love each other in the ways they can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 15:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: Bill and Ryan navigate love and hate, and all the quiet moments that come between.





	1. heads

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcicioni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/gifts).



> The first chapter is past tense, Ryan POV, the second is present tense, Bill POV. Apologies for any muckups there. 
> 
> I wrote the first part of this fic for mcicioni on her birthday this past year. The other side of the coin felt like it needed to get written as well. Hope you enjoy this work!

Running with Bill for a while, it was easy to get into the habit of being the reasonable one, the less hot-headed one. Though Bill could be cool, revenge aside, he was still a young man, and tended to be the first one to jump into a fight.

This time, though, it was Ryan who’d thrown the first punch. Not to mention the rat-faced gambler had been a better fighter than he’d bargained on.

Ryan flexed his fingers and winced again, a small cry of pain escaping his mouth.

“Easy, old man. They’re broken. Don’t need to keep tryin’ that.”

They’d taken up in a room a town over, having well upset the saloon-goers in the other. It was a lawless town, but they had an order based on crime. Ryan knew the type. In any case, they hadn't taken kindly to the shake-up, which meant they had to head out, right quick. Though they'd won the fight, thanks to Bill.

“You got something to bind them with?”

“Yeah, hold on there,” Bill pulled a length of fabric out from his pack. He sat down next to Ryan on the threadbare quilt of the bed,  passing him the slightly stained bandage.

“You really went after him.”

“He was going to rob you. Seen it before,” Ryan tugged the loop over his fingers tight, to keep them straight. He managed to only wince. Bill was usually the one that got hurt more often, and in those times, Bill wasn't up for help with getting patched up. Ryan could respect that. Though it might be nice to have another pair of hands when one of his was useless.

“I know, but. Can handle that, we both can and have before, and without raising fists.”

“Yeah. I got reckless. Got caught up in it,” he shook his head, thinking of the liquid calm Bill had shown, one gun on the gambler’s neck, the other pointed at his friend’s heart, “So I might owe you for that one.”

“Guess that makes us even again,” Bill took out a toothpick, chewing on it consideringly. “Seemed like you really hated him. There a history there?”

Ryan shook his head, a bit of melancholy in that. He took a sip of the whiskey Bill had poured for them both, to help with the pain a little. Seemed natural that Bill would connect hate to history. The difference between them in age rarely mattered, but every so often they hit on things he knew that Bill didn't. Things Bill just hadn't seen yet.

“Here's the thing about hate, son--”

“Told you not to call me that.”

“Right. Sorry. I guess you can forgive me being the stupid one today in more ways than one,” Ryan was more self-deprecating than usual, or at least the look on Bill’s face told him so. Not really much to help that, except perhaps sleep and some healing.

He finished up the bandage wrapping, standing up to take stock of the room, now that his hand was taken care of. Might put a stall on them traveling around for a few weeks. At the very least, the room is clean, if a little beaten down, and the bed big enough for two.

“Hate?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Ryan laid out his shaving kit on the vanity, then unloaded the guns in his pack, save for the one on his belt. He thought carefully about what he meant to say.

“There's a few ways you can hate people, some of them stronger than others. There's hatin’ because they've hurt you, or because they hurt someone close to you or want to. It's a sane kind of hate.”

“I know it,” Bill tilted his head. They'd come to mean a lot to each other in the past few months, sharing beds and riding side by side. Protecting each other had become second nature.

“So, there's that. But there's also a kind of hate that gets to your soul. I dunno if you've seen it yet. It's very sudden, gets right under you. It's the kind of hate you have towards someone who’s like you. But not in a good way. In all the worst ways, and maybe in a way that they're proud of,” Ryan’s voice got a little hoarse there. But that’s how he knew he’d said it right. His chest had been heavy since they’d rode out, but at least now he had a name for it.

Bill blinked his steely blue eyes, “You think you were like him?”

“I'd be lying if I said I wasn't.”

“But you're not like him anymore.”

“Doesn't mean I didn't hurt people when I was.”

Bill opened his mouth, slightly at a loss for words, then said, perhaps too loudly, “You shouldn't worry about that, not anymore. And you shouldn't feel like what he does matters, it doesn't.”

“Shouldn’t a lot of things, Bill, that doesn't mean they don't happen,” he smiled wryly at Bill, cutting him off before he goes to speak again, “Now _you_ shouldn't get hot headed about this, really. It doesn’t matter.”

“It don’t but--”

“I'm alright. Made my peace with that just like you have. Still doesn't mean it goes away,” Ryan looked at Bill in the eye as he said it, though it was hard to do so.  He'd thrown away the silver skull long before they'd reunited, but every so often the weight of it was still there, cold against his neck.

Bill knew enough, at least, to fall silent now, though he didn't look happy about it. Ryan tried to feel optimistic, but his hand was throbbing. Best to drop the subject for now. He studied himself in the dusty mirror, dragging his good hand across the fresh crop of stubble, “Huh. Looks like a shave will have to wait a while.”

“You’re gonna start a beard if you wait till those fingers heal.”

“Yeah,” he grimaced slightly, watching Bill step closer in the mirror behind him, “Well. At least itching that will keep me from itching the bandages too much.”

“You want me to shave you?” Bill asked it quietly, meeting Ryan’s eyes in the mirror. He was a steady hand, even though he shaved much less frequently. And Ryan trusted him.

“Yeah. Thanks. I think...that'd be nice,” he did smile a little bit, and more when he saw Ryan smile back.

There was a porcelain bowl on the counter for water, which Bill went to fill at the pump. It was falling on evening now, so Ryan made do best he could lighting the lamp left handed. It wasn't the first time he'd had to. By the time Bill returned with the water he was struggling with the buttons of his shirt.

“Can do that for you,” Bill stepped closer and got started as sooner as Ryan nodded.

Bill was skittish about touch, but Ryan did enjoy his closeness when he was able to. And understood when he couldn't. Bill had a particular clean smell to him, gentleness mixed with gun oil. Ryan could feel his chest loosening just being near him. Looking back, it had been a long day.

Bill had him sit down in the wooden desk chair, shook his head when Ryan started to lather the soap with one hand.

“I can do that too.” He was serious about it, like he was with all things, with where they went and why, who they helped out, how long they stayed. They always talked it over carefully. What they did together, too. Ryan was careful with him. Though he wanted to lean forward and kiss him, even now, he stayed where he was.

It wasn’t long, anyhow, until Bill’s hands were layering the soap into the hollows of Ryan’s cheekbones, his ice-blue eyes narrowed in concentration. It was quite arresting. Normally the few times Ryan could afford a shave at a barber, he’d just close his eyes and let go. With Bill, it was hard to look away.

Bill took the time to make sure the blades were good and sharp before he got started. No worry of that, given how well Ryan kept his kit in order. It had always been something that gave him a sense of purpose, made him feel respectable.

The blade was tentative along his flesh. Ryan wanted to say something reassuring, let him know that he trusted the steadiness of his hand, that it would be alright.  But perhaps while not while the razor was at his neck. He caught Bill’s eye, feeling a flash of affection pass between them. Bill nodded, then stroked the razor along the sides of his jaw with more confidence.

“I still appreciate you looking out for me, you know,” Bill’s voice was quiet as he managed the fine details of Ryan’s chin. Ryan managed a quiet, ‘mhm’ for that, still not fully able to speak. He could appreciate how soft Bill’s hands were, dripping water on his bare chest. Bill licked his lips, his brow furrowing in concentration as he shaved the last part, around Ryan’s mustache.

When he took the towel to dry Ryan off, Ryan let him. From anyone else, that would have made him feel like an invalid, but from Bill it seemed like a clumsy attempt at affection. In any case, when Bill smiled at him, Ryan felt light for the first time since they’d entered that saloon.

“Looks great,” he studied himself in the mirror, “Couldn’t have done it better myself. Thanks.”

“Good,” Bill stared at Ryan for a moment longer, looking profoundly doubtful, “I know you're gonna feel what you're gonna. But for what it’s worth. I think you're doing good. We’re doing good, alright?”

“Thank you, Bill,” he said, and meant it. Truly. Carefully, watching for any sign of unease, he kissed Bill on the cheek. That seemed to go over alright. Bill ran his fingers along the fresh smoothness of Ryan's cheek.

“Feeling cleaner?”

“Clean enough,” Ryan smiled, tilted his head up, and slowly beckoned Bill into a grateful kiss.


	2. tails

Bill prefers to sleep on the road. 

Sleep is thin there, none too deep. The rustle of the wind or the uneasy snuffle of the horses keeps him from slipping into memories. 

When he sleeps on the road, he can keep Ryan close, but not too close. Bedroll next to his, warmth radiating between them, but nothing that feels oppressive. Just on the edge of comfortable. Ryan sleeps more, and deeper than he does. Sometimes after Bill has gotten his barely quarter day snatch, he sits awake watching him, just to be sure. Wakes him from nightmares. Or tries his best to shake them off with a tentative touch. 

When they sleep in a room, though. Bill dreams. 

Sometimes it’s of the smell of gunpowder, spilled blood mixed with the still-comforting scent of the horses of their ranch. Sometimes it’s the feeling of splinters digging in to his fingertips, he wants to look away, he knows he never will be able to. 

Tonight it’s the voices. The faces. Sharp and barked, his mother’s cries against the gunshot and their empty eyes. Bill could feel his eyes growing cold and empty in that moment, could feel it again even now when his mind is screaming at him to wake. 

Then the flicker of a silver skull. Arms around him, arms that he can  _ still feel _ suffocating him, he can’t breathe -- 

Then finally,  _ finally _ Bill gasps and sits straight up. The horrors are pasted to him in sweat and chills, and Ryan is rubbing his eyes, not touching him anymore. He knows better. This kind of sleep doesn’t get better.

Bill breathes for a solid minute, listening to the whisper of crickets out the inn window. He takes in the simplicity of the room, their packs by the door, his gun on the bedside table. Everything in its place. There’s still the ghost of that swell of sick gratitude and hatred in turn that he’d felt. It’s hard to look at Ryan. He forces his eyes up. 

“You were there.”

That’s hard for Ryan to take, but Bill knows he’d want to hear it. Ryan’s mustache twitches, shifting away from Bill on the bed.

“Oh. Do you want me to--” 

“No,” Bill pulls him close, clumsy and too hard. He doesn't mean to upset Ryan. It's just difficult to look at him and keep this from him. 

He clears his throat next to Ryan’s ear, “I could tell you wasn’t happy with what they was doing. I remember that.”

“What I felt don’t mean anything compared to what I did. Or didn’t do.”

“M’sorry,” Bill means it. The last thing he wants to do is hurt Ryan. The past is determined, as ever, not to be just that. 

“Hush. You’re not the one supposed to be comforting me,” Ryan mumbles, letting Bill adjust the grip around his shoulders. Ryan likes being held, Bill can’t stand it. So this was comfort in itself, knowing that he didn’t have to be that child anymore. That he was never going to be again. 

Feeling wasn’t going away anytime quick though. Bill squeezed Ryan tighter. 

“I like sleeping on the road,” is all he says.   
  
“Yeah. Yeah,” Ryan reaches up a hand tentatively to stroke at Bill’s fingertips. Bill exhales, relaxing by inches in spite of himself. Ryan squeezes gently, “If you want to talk, don’t stop on my account. I’m alright.”

A burst of affection chokes Bill in the throat. He nods wordlessly, trying to make sense of whether the ball of emotions in his stomach is his own, or the child he no longer knows. He loosens his grip on Ryan, reaches for the box of matches. Lights the oil lamp, ignoring the slight dampness on his cheeks. 

Ryan has seen it before. Ryan has seen all of it, and here they are. 

Bill leans back so that he and Ryan are equal in height, shoulders pressed together. Ryan takes out his pipe, looks to him like it’s a question. Bill just nods, but doesn’t reach for a smoke either. He brushes off his cheeks, lets Ryan take his hands. Swallows the lump in his throat.

“I -- it was people tonight,” Bill starts, pressing his lips tightly shut. Ryan squeezes his hands, just gently. Bill doesn’t want to cry again. It’s happening, again, just like all of it never stops, but in spite of himself he leans further into Ryan’s shoulder, presses a kiss to his fingertips. Ryan’s fingers have healed by now, he thinks abstractly, remembering back to what Ryan said about hate. Hate, he thought he knew well enough.

Anything different from that was a lot harder. No past in it. 

“People you killed?” Ryan asks. He knows the right words to use.

“Uh-huh.” It doesn’t change anything. It didn’t. He swallows, the tears at least washing out the residual fear, “They’re still there.”

“Yeah,” Ryan moves his hand up, squeezes his shoulder. Ryan is still here.

Love, Bill doesn’t know shit about how that sticks around. 

“Your parents?”

“For a minute, yeah. My sister. I don’t know how to remember them. Not really.”

“Yeah,” For a moment, Ryan seems like he’s going to say something, then he thinks better of it. Bill never asked about Ryan’s history, his family. The past was the past. 

He shifts deeper into Ryan’s arms, held for the first time in the better part of the year they’d been together. Bill lets the arms settle around him, settle around the child who never cried that night. He closes his eyes, tries to focus on the gratitude. He lived through that, the both of them did. Hate and penance and all of it for what? 

The crickets chirp in the quiet night, the morning probably beginning to peak out over the mesas. They’d be on the road again soon, at least. Ryan turns the lamp down, presses a kiss to his forehead. 

All for what?

The child inside him knows. 

They both hope it sticks around. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments, reviews, thoughts, very much appreciated <3


End file.
